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Whoever has time to look and listen, need only go out of doors, to wonder and be charmed. On any "quarter section " in the world, may be seen and heard, the alphabet of almost all thought, and the utterances of almost all tongues. This is not a discovery; oh, no! but only a wreath of vapor to the "cloud of witnesses" that have already testified.

Life.

THE pulses of great Nature never beat more audibly and musically than just about "the leafy month of June:" life, every where life, in field and flood, in earth, and air, and sky. Life in all forms: life with a sweet breath in it, life with a song in it, life with a light in it. Life tied up in little bags of most Quakerish-looking silk, by that sly spinner, the spider; life done up in gray bundles, and hung upon apple trees; deposited in little brown paper cups, or packed away in little clay cells, by gentry in yellow jackets, and gentry with delicate waists, whose only foible consists in their not being, always and altogether, like Job and Moses; life hidden in the hearts

of ripening plums and reddening cherries-find a sweeter cradle any where, if you can; life rocked in shells, put up in mother-of-pearl, set in ivory, chased with gold, consigned to little graves every where; laid away in "Patent Burial Cases"-just where Fisk got the idea and fastened to rails and fence-posts; life, that, by and by, shall spread wings damp with the imprint of this great Stereotyping Establishment of the Almighty; life standing "on end," in little boats, and rising into the air, taking to bugle-ing as soon as it is born, and evincing, by the presentation of "bills" at most unseasonable and unreasonable hours, a decided talent for ledger literature; life sheltering itself beneath the leathern umbrella of the mushroom, revelling in the rose's red heart, drilled into the solid rock, domiciled in mud hovels, along rafters and beneath eaves, "playing in the plighted clouds,” "laid" in a manger, peeping from holes, floating in the air, swinging in the wind, skulking under the chips, burrowing in the earth, darting along rail fences, opening nankeen throats from little baskets of twigs, floating in tatters of green baize on the ponds, advocating Solomon on birch, "poor Will," talking Greek, "brekekek koax, koax," and practising hydropathy, k'chug; life in bags and boxes, bundles and

blankets; in silks, satins and shells; in "tights," and flounces, and feathers and flannels; life full dressed and in dishabille; life knocking from the centre of fallen logs; knocking from the other side of shells white and blue, and mottled and dappled; and June is "The delegated voice of God,"

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to bid them come in, come up, come down, come out," and be, and do, and suffer; conjugating and inflecting the great active verb-"LIVE."

Turn over the loam in the fields, and you turn out turtle's eggs by the score. Go" across lots" to the neighbor's, and you find the pearly treasures of the whistling quail by the dozen. Tap a sand-hill lightly, with the toe of your boot, and you will see the ladies to whom Solomon referred sluggards, by the myriad. Shake a bush, and you shake out a bird, or a peep, or a bug, or a bud, or something that's "all alive." Pluck a leaf, and you may find on it a crystal drop, such as one might dream Queen Mab would shed if "in the melting mood;" but the sun shall "set" on it a few days, and out will come a thing all legs, or wings, or stings-something to hum or drum-to fly or creep, or crawl; something to be something and some body, and count just as many in the great census

of Creation, as he who called the shades of Ashland his, or she who journeyed, of old, to see Solomoncount just as many," in words and figures following," to-wit: (1) one.

A Mystery.

"THINGS are working" these June days. Things? Wonders withal. Why, quiet as it is here to-day, with nothing but green and blue in sight-the fields, the woods, and the sky-and not a sound of carpentry, save the incessant hammering upon tree-trunks, of worthies in red caps, there is more going on than one would dream of between the third call and breakfast-time; things that Silliman couldn't do, nor Davy, nor Liebig.

Do you see that cherry tree? Every one of four bushels upon it. There's a ripe one. Use your pickers and stealers," and pluck it. A cherry-red, ripe and rich. Fragrance and flavor done up in a red wrapper.

Set your cunning men that conjure with crucibles, to make one, and you "set" them of a surety. De

pend upon them, and you might, and you would,

"make two bites of a cherry." Yet on that modest tree, "out of doors," that article was manufactured. No furnace sighing from morning till night-no workmen in white aprons-no sugar crushed, refined, snowy-no flour superfine-no vermilion in pot or powder-no parade, no bustle; but there they are, "cherry ripe!"

Winter's cold fingers were lifted from the pulses of the tree, and they throbbed full and strong. Pumps in the earth below, were rigged and manned. Signals were silently set in bud and blossom aloft. Winds came, and swung the branches, and peeped into this and that, and went away. Birds came and looked about, and saw nothing, and went too. Unseen hands were gathering, and moulding, and refining all the while. The sun came up from the Tropic of Capricorn, and looked on-nothing more. The clouds went dripping by, and never stopped, and that was all. ED., or SILAS, or some body, planted a cherry stone, four or five years ago, and forgot it; but the

whip" of a tree went right on, and without any help that we can see, set up business, and manufactured Nature's confectionary, all by itself. Last week the cherries were green-now they are tinted with red; not a brush lying about, not a stained finger

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